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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087615">Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_fan/pseuds/fab_fan'>fab_fan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hamilton Has Taken Over My Life, Hamilton Lyrics, Hamilton References, Idiots in Love, Randomness, The Author Regrets Nothing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087615</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_fan/pseuds/fab_fan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton inspired MFS stories that don't fit in anywhere else? Here you go!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Burn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Scylla found the first letter on her desk, a hastily scribbled note, barely a sentence or two long, letting her know Raelle had to leave to make it on time for inspection and didn’t want to wake her. Scylla reread the note five times, a strange warmth igniting in her chest like a cozy fire on a cold winter’s night, crackling and comforting as the tiny flames licked at her ribs and sent a streak of pink tinged affection down to her belly. She bit her lip and neatly folded the paper, a torn sheet, it looked like, from one of her notebooks, and carefully tucked it into the drawer next to her stack of notecards and a handful of pens. It was the first time someone besides her parents had left her something like that. She shouldn’t feel so...giddy about it. Raelle was just a mark. A mission. A girl she was supposed to guide along until it was time to extract her and hand her off to the Spree.</p><p>But, she liked her. Liked the time they spent together. Yes, the sex was...great. Scylla chewed her lip as she played with the handle of the drawer, fingers tickling along it and up to the wooden edge of the desk. Raelle was giving. Attentive. Passionate. The fire and fury inside of her ignited into desire so hot sometimes all Scylla could do was hang on and let herself go.</p><p>Let herself trust Raelle, with her body if not her mind, her heart.</p><p>But, it was more than that. </p><p>Raelle held her in her arms at night, pressing sweet kisses to her chest and neck. She always checked in, making sure Scylla was ok, that she wasn't overstepping or doing anything Scylla didn’t want. She whispered how beautiful Scylla was, how good she was.</p><p>The way she said it, showed it, made Scylla believe she actually meant it. They weren’t just words. Random sayings she uttered because it was what she thought she was supposed to do.</p><p>Raelle meant every word she said to Scylla.</p><p>Which was scary. Terrifying. Yet, it also made her heart flutter. </p><p>And now, here, having left without waking Scylla, she left a note. Made sure Scylla didn’t wake up alone and wondering. </p><p>A little token, a sign, that should mean nothing yet meant almost everything.</p><p>Scylla stepped away from the desk, mentally shaking her head. She couldn’t think like this. Couldn’t forget what was actually happening. Get lost in the moment. She was here for one purpose. To help the Spree. To achieve justice. Liberation. Raelle somehow was a part of that. She was a means to an end. Nothing more.</p><p>As she ran a hand through her hair, untangling the knots that had formed overnight, her eyes couldn’t help but go back to the drawer.</p><p>No one would know she would periodically take it out and reread it when she was alone. </p><p>That sometimes, when balloons weren’t looking and a feeling of confused helplessness stoked tiny fires in her mind, she would trace every pen stroke, delicately outline each swish and slash.</p><p>Hold it close to her heart and protect it from preying merciless eyes like she would her parents’ photo, if she had it once again. </p><p>The second note was pressed into her hand by a bashful blonde, her roguish grin muted by nerves but still gleaming.</p><p>“What’s this?” Scylla raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“Why don’t you open it and find out?”</p><p>Humming to herself at the earnest look, she teasingly contemplated the folded paper, “Let me guess...ransom note. You finally kidnapped High Atlantic and need help hiding the body.”</p><p>Raelle smirked,“And you know where to hide a body?</p><p>“Necro.”</p><p>“What else can you hide?”</p><p>Her face flickered, images of fire dancing on the tip of a lighter and garages, dark and full of silent screams, flashed in her mind, before settling into a teasing smile, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”</p><p>Raelle rolled her eyes, “Read it.”</p><p>“I thought patience was a virtue.”</p><p>A sigh, “Please?”</p><p>Tilting her head, Scylla noticed the eager anxiousness flittering across the younger witch’s face. </p><p>Raelle was actually nervous.</p><p>Nodding, she unfolded the paper.</p><p>It was a list of scores.</p><p>“You...got the highest score in windstrikes.” She read the number, and her eyes widened, “A very high score.”</p><p>This score was incredible for such inexperienced recruits.</p><p>Bellweather Unit was powerful.</p><p>“Turn it over.”</p><p>Flipping the paper, she found barely legible scrawl, “Raelle, your handwriting is terrible.”</p><p>A sigh, “Can you read it?”</p><p>She could.</p><p>“You want me to go with you to the pageant?” She lifted her head to stare into shy blue eyes.</p><p>Raelle nodded, “We get to go off Base. I...thought maybe we could do something together. Walk around, maybe get some pizza or something.”</p><p>Scylla felt the cozy fire return, snow melting away and the spring sun turning the world golden and new, “A date.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Raelle smiled, leaning in to her, “a date.” She gave a tiny shrug, “Think you might go on a date with me?” She lifted her chin toward the paper, “Before you answer…”</p><p>Scylla looked back down. There were two tiny boxes drawn under the question.</p><p>Yes.</p><p>No.</p><p>She sensed Raelle dig in her pocket and produce a pen, fiddling with it before holding it up.</p><p>Scylla had never seen anything more adorable.</p><p>Then, she felt an unexpected wave of disappointment fill her, “I have training.”</p><p>Sergeant L’Amara was going to give a lecture on Beltane’s impact on certain Necromancy seeds - a lecture Scylla had been curious to hear about, to learn, ever since it was mentioned. </p><p>She also had to report to the Spree how her mission was progressing.</p><p>For once, she wanted to skip both. Forget everything else and grab a greasy slice of overpriced pizza and pretend like all she had to worry about was making Raelle smile and if she could get her to skip the pageant and spend more time together, just the two of them.</p><p>She was certain Raelle wouldn’t mind.</p><p>Raelle blinked, frowning as she stepped back, quickly shoving the pen back in her pocket, “Oh. Ok.” Her posture deflated, eyes dimming a bit, though she tried not to show it.</p><p>Chewing her bottom lip, “I would, though. Like to go on a date with you.”</p><p>She perked up a bit, “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Ok. Great.” Raelle winked, “Holding you to that, Ramshorn.” She wiggled her eyebrows, “It’s a date.”</p><p>“It’s a date.”</p><p>Raelle held out her hand, “Walk you back?”</p><p>“Don’t you have to get back to yours?”</p><p>“I know a shortcut.”</p><p>The third note was a charming scrap of paper hidden in her bag wishing her good luck on a tough assignment she had been preparing for. A few words that, to anyone else, would mean nothing. A cute little sentiment. </p><p>But to Scylla, it meant so much. </p><p>Raelle had thought about her. Took the time to write something for her. Paid attention enough to know this one thing about her but also didn’t make a big deal about it. Simply let Scylla know she was thinking about her. </p><p>It was the same with the next countless number of notes. Small pieces of notebook paper, corners ripped off of random sheets or entire letters written in Raelle’s messy scrawl. Wishing her a good day. Letting her know Raelle was thinking about her. Describing a mesmerizing evening in the Cession and how Raelle couldn’t wait to show it to her someday. Letting her know there was an extra candy bar she’d picked up from the commissary for her on her desk. </p><p>So many little pieces that, when put together, outlined exactly how Raelle unwittingly made Scylla fall in love, no matter how hard she fought it. </p><p>An entire relationship captured in the letters from a scamp whose words left Scylla defenseless to her charm and caused the grounded Necro to take flight, soaring away from her secrets and far too close to the sun. Seeking the light finally appearing after she had been lost in the darkness for so long, forgetting that life would always become death, and she was never meant to bask in the affection of sky blue eyes and heavenly grins.</p><p>The last letter arrived after she escaped and rejoined the Spree.</p><p>The last letter came from Anacostia.</p><p>Along with the rest of them.</p><p>Scylla sat on the park bench, idly playing with the lighter as she watched the people go about their day, strolling along the well worn walking paths and chatting about inconsequential things like mortgages and the latest television show they watched. Uncaring that witches were off fighting wars for them. Dying for them. Giving up everything for them.</p><p>She looked to be lazy, simply another young woman enjoying the afternoon. Comfortably slouched in jeans and a baggy coat far too hot for the summer but felt like a protective cape shielding her from unseen danger.</p><p>To all who observed her, she was a teenager spending her final days before college in quiet contemplation. Relaxed. Unaffected by the burdens of adulthood. Young.</p><p>She wasn’t.</p><p>Her eyes scanned each face, each body. Alert. On guard. Ready to leave at a moment’s notice.</p><p>She clenched her jaw, the only visible sign of agitation, as a figure approached and sat down beside her.</p><p>“You’re late.” Scylla spoke amicably, tone little more than politely conversational, “Imagine Sergeant Quartermaine not punctual. Something must be quite bad. Did the world end and no one told me?”</p><p>Her benchmate didn’t say anything.</p><p>Brows dipping, Scylla clicked the lighter again, “Let me guess. Alder finally figured out velcro is stupid for a uniform jacket, and you’ve been rushing to find as many buttons as possible to replace them.”</p><p>“Scylla.”</p><p>The grim tone cut off whatever else Scylla was going to say. She turned her head, finally looking at Anacostia.</p><p>Her face was stoic, mouth a straight line. There was a small package in her lap. On closer inspection, it was a stack of papers held together with a bit of twine. </p><p>“What’s going on?” her eyes dropped to the letters.</p><p>She refused to recognize the familiar scrawl visible on the smudged papers.</p><p>It couldn’t be. </p><p>She hid them.</p><p>Even if they were found when the Army no doubt tore her room apart, they wouldn’t have kept them. They would have found a bunch of stupid love notes between girlfriends and tossed them. Because Raelle had nothing to do with her as Spree. Not in any way that did anything but let the Army turn her against Scylla.</p><p>Let them use Scylla’s lies to their advantage. </p><p>Take away Scylla’s chance to explain. To plead. To prove that she loved Raelle. That it wasn’t a game for her. It was real. That she felt all the love Raelle poured into those letters.</p><p>And, those pages were smudged. Dirty. Ripped.</p><p>She took care of Raelle’s letters.</p><p>Cherished them. </p><p>Those papers were more like trash than treasure.</p><p>Anacostia licked her lips before responding, “There was a mission to the Tarim Basin. China. The mission was ultimately a success, but we suffered heavy casualties. Heavy losses.”</p><p>“Ok,” she didn’t understand what this had to do with anything. Had to do with those damn letters in her lap.</p><p>Letters no one else should touch except for her or Raelle.</p><p>“Bellweather Unit was deployed on graduation day to the Tarim Basin. They took part in the mission.”</p><p>Scylla stared at the letters.</p><p>
  <em> Deployed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tarim Basin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heavy losses. </em>
</p><p>The words didn’t make sense. They were in a foreign language. One she didn’t understand, could never understand. Like a messy Fixer's scrawl that was so rushed with emotion and lack of time that it was incomprehensible. Unreadable. </p><p>“Scylla?”</p><p>Scylla blinked rapidly, mind glitching. “I don’t…”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Anacostia took her in. Suddenly seeing how young she looked.</p><p>How young she was.</p><p>“Abigail Bellweather and Raelle Collar were killed in action.”</p><p>Scylla didn’t move.</p><p>She couldn’t move.</p><p>She couldn’t think.</p><p>Couldn’t breath.</p><p>Couldn’t exist.</p><p>All she could do was stare at those letters.</p><p>Those damn letters.</p><p>“Scylla.”</p><p>“No.” fell from her lips. “No.”</p><p>“I am sorry.” her voice cracked slightly before she quickly regained her composure.</p><p>“Raelle is fine. She’s...fine. She wouldn't...they wouldn’t…”</p><p>“She served bravely. She saved lives.”</p><p>Trembling fingers slowly raised, pressing against a forming headache, chest heavy like a thousand boulders were dropped inside and sewn up, resting for all eternity where her heart used to lay. The once comforting fire that always appeared whenever she thought about her girlfriend, her lover, her Raelle, didn’t appear. </p><p>Instead, a cold dread, like the chilling hands of death itself, spread through her body, overtaking her arms and making her legs feel like immovable stems, roots sinking into the ground and locking her in place.</p><p>“I thought you should know.” Anacostia gingerly picked up the stack and held it out to her, “These were found in your room when it was cleared out.”</p><p>Scylla stared at them.</p><p>Swirls of staining ink on fragile paper mocked her. Mocked her heart. Her feelings. Her needs and desires and wants and dreams.</p><p>She shook her head, “No. Those...they’re not mine.”</p><p>“Yes, they are.”</p><p>“No, the top...I’ve never.” she glared at the letter on top. She’d never seen it. She knew every letter Raelle ever gave her by heart. Could recite each line. Draw each syllable. Recreate them from memory. She had never seen that letter before.</p><p>Anacostia spoke quietly, “Before she left, Raelle asked me to look out for you. She gave me a letter. For you.”</p><p>“No, no.” Scylla’s lips shook, her chin quivering, “She didn’t…”</p><p>Raelle only gave the letters to her.</p><p>They were only for her.</p><p>She wouldn’t give Anacostia a letter. Wouldn’t reveal them to someone else. The thought of someone else seeing them, of being let into this secret that was only for two, only for them, made her feel sick. Made her stomach churn and bile burn the back of her throat.</p><p>Like the thought of others reading them. Touching them. Holding them. Someone not her or Raelle. Letters that were for their eyes only. The thought that other people were let into their relationship, into their bed, into their love, it burned. It hurt. The whole world got to see them. They had no right. </p><p>“Go home, Scylla.” Anacostia gently ordered. </p><p>Teary eyes stared at the sergeant.</p><p>“Go home.”</p>
<hr/><p>Scylla stormed into her bedroom, the door slamming behind her. She viciously threw the letters on the bed. Without pausing, she paced around her room like a caged tiger, an untamed animal locked up, full of pent up anger and rage that threatened to explode behind invisible bars of steel and iron. </p><p>She ripped her coat off, shoving it in a chair as she swept by. Her arms swung at her sides, steps uneven and clumsy. </p><p>This wasn’t real.</p><p>It was a lie.</p><p>Those weren’t her letters.</p><p>The letters were hidden.</p><p>No one else had a right to them.</p><p>Not Anacostia.</p><p>Not the Army.</p><p>No one but her and Raelle.</p><p>They were <em> their </em> letters.</p><p>Just like Raelle would never ever give a letter to Anacostia.</p><p>Never.</p><p>Because...because the letters were for her. If she wanted to give Scylla a letter, she would.</p><p>She wasn’t deployed.</p><p>She wasn’t gone.</p><p>She was fine. </p><p>Headache raging, Scylla swallowed back a sob, the tears scorching her throat and belly. Her hands balled into fists before flattening out. Back and forth, restless and full of unrelenting anxiety.</p><p>The letters sat on the bed.</p><p>Waiting.</p><p>“No,” Scylla whispered to herself.</p><p>She refused to acknowledge them.</p><p>Acknowledge this.</p><p>Still, the letters waited.</p><p>With a muttered curse, she stomped up to the bed. She tore at the twine, the letters flying everywhere as she finally unwound it. </p><p>Catching one in her hand, she held it up to her gaze.</p><p>
  <em> Scyl, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m supposed to be writing a letter to my Pop, but I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you looked in my arms, your head on my chest as you slept. You looked so beautiful. I almost wished you never woke up, you looked so peaceful. Happy. But, then, you woke up and looked at me with those blue eyes of yours, and I’ll I could think of was how I hoped you would always look at me like that. I guess I just want you to know you mean a lot to me. I’m yours, Scyl. No matter what. I’m in this with you. I can’t wait to see you again, tonight. Maybe we could do something this weekend? Maybe a picnic? I haven’t been on one since I was a kid, but it could be fun. Grab some food and head out to one of the lakes on base? Think about it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>The letter slipped from her fingers, floating to the floor. </p><p>Scylla, eyes blurred with tears, dove after it, knees slamming into the ground painfully, hands scrambling for the papers. </p><p>No, no, no, no.</p><p>She blindly grasped one.</p><p>
  <em> Scyl, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have guard duty tonight. Maybe we can get breakfast before training?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>Another.</p><p>
  <em> Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a poet, because I could write a million poems about how beautiful you look when you smile or tell me about your day. Back home, we didn’t learn much in school. I think our textbooks were from the 50’s. My English teacher was old enough to be Alder. But, I remember this one poem. I don’t know why, but now I think I do. It reminds me of you. Maybe one day I can tell you about it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>Another.</p><p>
  <em> See you tonight? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>Another.</p><p>
  <em> I know we are taking things slow. Your pace, Scyl, I mean it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But, if you ever doubt that I meant it when I said I’m here, I’m yours, no matter what, look at this note.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Because I am yours. I’m here. I want you, no matter who you used to be, who you are, who you will be. That person is the girl I want.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I want you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>Finally.</p><p>
  <em> Scylla, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I gave this to Anacostia to give to you. She won’t read it. No one will but you, I hope.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You’re going away, and I am too. I never thought we’d get here, but maybe I did. Maybe this was how it was always going to be. No matter what either of us did. I was always meant to be war meat. <strike>You.</strike> You were meant to not be mine. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t understand anything. I don’t know what was real or not for you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was all real for me. Everything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It still is. </em>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> I still love you. </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> I think I always will. </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <em> I hope you’re ok. That they don’t hurt you. I know you’re not bad. You are a good person. I have to believe that. You couldn’t be how we were and it all be wrong. You couldn't kiss me, look at me, the way you did and not mean it even a little bit.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Whatever you meant, whatever you felt, I felt it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am being deployed. I fucked up, Scyl. I messed up. No surprise there. It’s what us shitbird Cessions do. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They’re sending me on a mission. Deployed. No War College. Even without my plan, I still ended up here. </em>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> I still ended up without you. </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t have much time. We’re leaving soon. I don’t know how long it’ll be. When I come back, you’ll be gone. I don’t know if they allow for letters, but, maybe someday I could write to you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe one day it won’t hurt so much. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe one day you can explain everything to me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Take care of yourself. Don’t do anything stupid.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>
  <em> PS: I’m sorry Scyl. I really am. I only wanted you to be happy. I don’t have a good feeling about anything right now, but I have always felt good about you. You’ll be ok. I have to believe that. No matter what happens, you’ll be ok. I have so many questions. So many things I don’t know. Right now, none of it matters. Not anymore. Maybe later it will, but I’m leaving, and I don’t know what is going to happen. Maybe it’s stupid to tell you this, but what’s one more stupid thing? I’ve done so many already. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I love you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was always you for me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Always. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No matter what. </em>
</p><p>An inhumane growl roared in the tiny room. </p><p>Scylla threw the letter away from herself. She clambered to her feet, spinning around and around.</p><p>Letters.</p><p>Everywhere.</p><p>Words and phrases, palaces made of paragraphs.</p><p>Their relationship.</p><p>Their love.</p><p>All of it etched onto these pages like distant memories, warped and twisted and a grotesque reflection of what once was.</p><p>How could she?</p><p>How could she write that letter?</p><p>Act like it was ok to say those things. </p><p>Say she still loved her.</p><p>Say she was leaving.</p><p>Know she wasn’t coming back.</p><p>Rage burned inside her. Blistering and hot. </p><p>Raelle did this.</p><p>She did this.</p><p>No.</p><p>Scylla did this. </p><p>It was her fault Raelle was gone. That Raelle left her. It was her lies. </p><p>She loved Raelle.</p><p>Chose her.</p><p>Would always choose her.</p><p>Raelle didn’t believe her.</p><p>She said she would, that she believed her, trusted her.</p><p>Her letters said so.</p><p>They were lies.</p><p>Everything was a lie.</p><p>And the entire world knew it all.</p><p>She said she loved her, but she left. </p><p>She was gone.</p><p>How could she want Scylla to be happy and still leave her?</p><p>How could she choose to die?</p><p>Snapping, mind shutting down and rage taking over, her hands dug into her pocket, pulling out the lighter. She clicked it. Again and again and again.</p><p>An anger so hot it could melt the sun coursed through her, grabbing on to her mind and taking over her arms, her hands, her soul.</p><p>She couldn’t look at these letters.</p><p>These pieces of a girl she could never have, would never have.</p><p>A life not meant for her.</p><p>A life the world took away.</p><p>She roughly scooped up the first page she could reach.</p><p>With a click, the small flame jumped to the page, quickly overtaking it, melting the words and thoughts and feelings into ash, into nothing. </p><p>She dropped the page into the trash bin near her bed, staring, bewitched, at the flames. </p><p>With a jerk, she spun around, grabbing whatever notes she could and throwing them in the fire, her tears matching the growing flames.</p><p>She wanted it to burn. </p><p>Everything.</p><p>Just like her heart burned.</p><p>Every memory. Every emotion. Every promise and vow and moment of delight.</p><p>Moment of love.</p><p>Every moment she couldn't get back. That Raelle didn’t believe was real.</p><p>Every moment that was gone, lost forever.</p><p>Because Raelle was gone.</p><p>Lost forever.</p><p>Her legs collapsed, her body falling into a weeping heap on the floor. </p><p>Her hand landed on a piece of paper. It crinkled in her fingers as she picked it up.</p><p>
  <em> Scyl, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can’t wait to see you again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> R </em>
</p><p>Choking on a sob, Scylla felt the warmth of the fire as she stared at the letter.</p><p>A warmth long gone from inside her.</p><p>Later, as she awoke, sprawled out on the floor, bitter embers all that was left in the trash bin, she would dig her hands into the blackened ash.</p><p>Try to piece it back together.</p><p>Try to bring it all back, bring <em> her </em> back.</p><p>Try to resurrect a love now lost.</p><p>Try to not live with the unimaginable.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Hurricane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The ink blotched against the paper, the tip of the pen awkwardly scraping against the thin page, nearly tearing a hole through the weathered see through parchment. Raelle bit her lip, the taste of iron bitter against the tip of her tongue as she fought to control the trembling. Her veins, sickly green against the sunburnt and dusty backs of her hands, were like tiny spider webs, roads that ended at her chipped and battered knuckles. Grit still dug into the creases of her palms and sand stung the torn skin under her fingernails.</p>
<p>She clenched her jaw, tight enough that her teeth ached and a sharp pain started behind her eyes. She breathed in deeply, pressing her fingertips against the pen hard enough to cause the pads to turn pale. She lifted the pen away from the stained paper, blinking at the smudges.</p>
<p>Mentally cursing herself, she squared her taut shoulders and brought the pen back to the paper.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one is paired with Burn (first chapter). Not all of these stories will connect, but, just like the two songs in the show are related, these two stories are related.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The ink blotched against the paper, the tip of the pen awkwardly scraping against the thin page, nearly tearing a hole through the weathered see through parchment. Raelle bit her lip, the taste of iron bitter against the tip of her tongue as she fought to control the trembling. Her veins, sickly green against the sunburnt and dusty backs of her hands, were like tiny spider webs, roads that ended at her chipped and battered knuckles. Grit still dug into the creases of her palms and sand stung the torn skin under her fingernails.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She clenched her jaw, tight enough that her teeth ached and a sharp pain started behind her eyes. She breathed in deeply, pressing her fingertips against the pen hard enough to cause the pads to turn pale. She lifted the pen away from the stained paper, blinking at the smudges.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mentally cursing herself, she squared her taut shoulders and brought the pen back to the paper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Scylla,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her blue orbs, burning ever since she landed in China, stepped off the bird and began marching toward the Tarim, never wavered from the paper in front of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had to get this out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had to write to someone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The need, the urge, the unstoppable pull to put her thoughts down for all eternity, for dark blue eyes to see them, roiled in her gut to the point she felt sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were so simple to some. So easy. Meaningless. Nothing more than random letters strung together. Loops and curls and jagged lines that spilled across pieces of paper like the ocean, overtaking everything yet incomprehensible. Too vast to be anything more than another part of life, something there that could look pretty at times and be readily ignored at others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not to her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not to a Cession who never saw a freshly printed book, unmarred by years of misuse and abuse, until she was traveling to Fort Salem.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not to a girl who grew up spelling English but hearing Ojibwemowin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not to Raelle, who treasured the letters her mother wrote to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Letters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The way her family showed love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her father wrote letters to her mother when they were together before Raelle was born. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Edwin scratched out his love on the backs of napkins and school textbooks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willa wrote back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wrote to Raelle, told her daughter, her little girl, that she loved her through precise scrawl. Gone so long and so often, Raelle knew her handwriting better than she knew her face. Might not immediately recognize her voice or her presence in a crowd but could quickly identify the way she crossed her ts...the way her gs dipped and the way she wrote Raelle’s name with such care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle could remember the feel of her mother’s arms around her once, right before she left for another deployment. Raelle read and reread her letters as she snuggled in the safety of her parent’s embrace. Asked her mom to read them to her. So she could memorize how it sounded in her voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s when Willa started leaving the tiny symbol at the end. The symbol that allowed Raelle to hear her. Be with her, however subtle and imperfect it was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mom didn’t write her letters anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was gone. Dead. Nothing more than a medal and glass. The last thing Raelle had of her was a letter Willa gave to Edwin meant for when Raelle graduated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A letter still tucked in Raelle’s pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Next to letters Raelle kept in case she made it home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A letter for her dad. Telling him she was fine. That she missed him. Was sorry for what she said before she took the oath. Before she left. That she wanted to talk to him more. That she loved him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A letter for Scylla.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A letter trying to figure out all the jumbled thoughts in her head. Jumbled thoughts and feelings that didn’t matter much when she was sitting in front of a fire in the middle of nowhere about to start watch because she was combat infantry now. And, if she let herself think too hard, she didn’t have a good feeling about all this. A letter saying she hoped her last one didn’t worry her too much, that she only had a few minutes to get it to Anacostia before she deployed, but everything inside of her was telling her to think about what she really wanted when she got home, and all she could think about was lying in bed and watching Scylla read her book as she committed to memory every twitch of an eyebrow and the slant of her lips as they mouthed along to the words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Letters to the two people she loved the most.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Letters she would never send now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Written what seemed like a lifetime ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What, technically, might have been a different life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rumble of boots and trucks echoed behind her, but she ignored them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew she was running out of time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had to get this down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Write down everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Write her way out of this mess her life had become. Out of the immeasurable chaos she was about to enter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was in the eye of a hurricane, a tiny space of quiet. The yellow sky painted the air above her head, but she could feel it changing. Charging. Sparking. Igniting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything was changing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything had changed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Changed the moment the knife sliced through her heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment she slipped her medal over to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>Combat Infantry </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>War College</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment she fell in love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment she kissed lips tinged with poison but full of crushing all consuming desire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moment she took the oath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing had been the same since the second she accepted her heritage, her destiny, and moved forward, head up and vision clear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People always accused her of being too honest. Wearing her heart on her sleeve. Not hiding her disdain or her affection. She said what she felt. Meant what she said. Always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not when she told Scylla she wished they’d never met.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not when she said Scylla was dead to her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not when she acted as if she believed she would come home and call her dad.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, there was no time for lies now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She could still see the words her mother wrote in her mind’s eye. Telling her she loved her. She missed her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She could see the letters she wrote to Scylla. Little notes. Mere pittance in the face of her true feelings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wondered if Anacostia had given the woman her last letter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did it even matter?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did Scylla still care?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was all of this for nothing? The love that Raelle couldn’t ignore, couldn’t hide from or get rid of no matter what she tried to do - was it for someone who never truly wanted her?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was she kidding herself? Taking the assurances Anacostia tried to give her and use words of kindness to fuel her heart?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was she a fool for being haunted by screams as she forced her feet to walk away from the woman she could spend forever with?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Scylla did love her - was Raelle going to make everything worse with the strokes of this pen?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it stupid to write to the one who broke her heart? Out of everyone, to put her love and trust in the woman who...the woman whose touch she still craved. Who, in what Raelle thought were her final moments, appeared like a spirit sent to guide her home? Guide her to the land of peaceful tranquility?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She still loved Scylla. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She needed Scylla to know everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pen moved harshly against the paper, moving so quickly the words ran together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know what is happening. We survived. I don’t know how long for. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I should be dead. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to die. Not yet, at least. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not sure how long that will last.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Camarilla are back.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know what Alder has said. I don’t know what the Army is doing. There’s whispers and rumors, but we can’t be certain. It’s hard to monitor chatter where we are. It’s not the focus of this unit, anyway. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t even know if this letter will reach you, but I have to try.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You need to be safe. The Camarilla are back and have voice boxes. They can sing the seeds. Alder’s seeds. Canon Work.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They have so much more power than we thought.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They are so much more than we thought.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Army doesn’t know. They won’t listen. People have tried to warn them. Warn others.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No one knows.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not back home, at least.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a group. They’ve been tracking the Camarilla. They’re not Spree. They’re different. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They found us.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Helped us. Strangers who were kind without knowing who we even were. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>More than anything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I still love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Be careful.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stay alive.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll find you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t try to find me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait for it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know this doesn’t make any sense. I need you to trust me. Wait for me. The Camarilla are dangerous, and the Army and Spree don’t know how much. They’ve been fighting each other for so long and haven’t seen what these people have. I’ll do what I can to come back, but</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pen slipped from the paper at the sudden voice. Raelle’s shoulders flinched, the tight string holding her body together thinning enough to be on the verge of snapping entirely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pen did snap in her hand, blackness squirting out, covering her skin with color so dark it made her wonder if it could ever truly be washed away or would permanently sink into her, twisting and turning until it made her blood the color of despair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail lightly approached, concern etched in her brown gaze, “It’s time to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle nodded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was out of time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tossed the broken pieces of metal and plastic to the ground and picked up the letter. She carefully folded it, the lines of her fingers imprinting on the edges. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The letter slid into the inner pocket of her borrowed brown jacket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You ok?” Abigail asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle nodded and turned around, stepping away from the flipped over box she had used as a desk. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail studied her for a moment, not commenting on the brokenness in the cut of her jaw or the embers that used to be fire in her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle pretended to not feel the worry from her friend and pushed past her, walking out of the makeshift structure and into the hot dry air. The noises and chaos of people rushing back and forth slammed into her like the heat, causing her lungs to contract and constrict in one breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the people jogging by spotted her and flipped around. Slightly older than Raelle, face youthful but eyes full of experience, the dark haired woman spoke up, a slight accent lilting her words, “You ready to go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re ready.” Abigail answered for them both, appearing beside the blonde.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman looked at Abigail before resting her gaze on Raelle, “There is movement near the Spanish border. We believe there will be a targeted attack there as well as in the States.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you sending me?” Raelle asked evenly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A slight pause, “Are you certain you want to go with us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle shrugged, “I’m a ghost anyways.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok,” she gestured, “Spain. We need someone with your healing skills,” she glanced at Abigail, “and we can always use more fighting power.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go.” Raelle began to walk. As the other woman fell in step beside her, Abigail half a pace behind them, she secretly pulled out the letter. She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “I need this sent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman took the letter, “Where?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“States. Scylla Ramshorn. That needs to get in her hands.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do know this is dangerous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle didn’t respond.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll make sure it happens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a quick side look, the woman was gone, letter in her own pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail slid up into her vacant spot, “Are we sure about this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You tell me, Bellwether.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail looked around them, “Secret organization designed to combat the Camarilla with no government ties full of dodgers, traitors, and deserters.” She chuckled, “You would get me caught up in this, Collar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“High Atlantics can’t have all the fun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I suppose not.” They ducked around a group of witches carrying cases full of provisions, “Who did you write to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle didn’t answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t have to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was really dangerous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle shrugged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you know what you’re doing with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle swallowed, “I need her to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Know that she was in danger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That Raelle still loved her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail sighed, “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raelle peeked over at her, “Are you sure you want to be here?” Abigail had a lot more to lose by not returning to Fort Salem. A High Atlantic Bellweather was not a Cession Collar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abigail was not Raelle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spain is nice this time of year. Besides, I can’t let you do this alone, Shitbird. Who knows what you’ll blow up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Abi nudged her, “Unit Unity, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, Abs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anytime, Rae.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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